Ashes and Rain
by barbed-wire-and-roses
Summary: A darker take on hurt/comfort, in which the Ten is keeping the Master prisoner and the drums are getting to the Master more than usual.
1. Chapter 1

It was weeks before the Master smiled at him, a slow, wicked thing like the world was on his strings. For a moment, the Doctor forgot that he _had_ this, that the Master was all but harmless to the universe at large. There was an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach, a nausea that remembered caged and tormented and the world coming down around his ears. Despite it, despite everything, the Doctor still found himself reaching out, like maybe he could fix this.

Some days he wished he had the capacity to hate the Master for his sins. Maybe the Doctor could have even, for Martha and Jack if no one else. If the Master were just a bit more lucid, a bit less belligerent. Every time he was woken to banging on walls, which was nearly every night if he were honest, he was a little less certain anything salvageable remained.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, and eventually the Doctor got used it until the cacophony was no longer so jarring. Eventually, the Master would wear himself out and the hammering would fade, less insistent with each beat until the Doctor knew he'd find his captive passed out on the floor somewhere.

It was a night no different, save for the fact that the Doctor was _tired_. All the times the Master shouted at him to listen, and of course it would be just then that he complied, in the small hours of the morning when he was meant to be sleeping. One, two, three, four, and the Doctor couldn't even be angry because the very idea of centuries trapped with _that_ in his head made him ill. One, two, three, four, and somehow he'd failed because they'd been something once, hadn't they? The Master had been bright and beautiful and ridiculous and there he was, reduced to his basest instincts, the ashes of all his potential. One, two, three, four, and the Doctor was clenching his jaw, sucking a breath through his teeth to steady himself. It seemed so heartless, rolling over, grasping at slumber, but...

But there the pounding stopped, rattling in the blunt silence that followed. Quiet was so rare anymore, it took on an eerie quality, tugging at the Doctor's exhausted nerves. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he slipped out of bed, padding down the hall in search of the silence.

XXX

Somewhere along the way, the Master decided, not that the Doctor could keep him, but that he iwould/i, whether he liked it or not. The Doctor would keep him and pay for the privilege. He would listen until he understood, until he could hear it too. Long since given up on running from his madness, the Master reveled in it, shouting it to a captive audience.

The Doctor was probably sleeping, or trying to. Some muted, saner part of himself knew he ought to be too, but it was silenced by the drums, still pounding away. The Master sang along, after a fashion, caught up in the echoes of the TARDIS walls as he matched the beat.

Oh, but his head hurt. It snuck up on him, crept between the drum beats, ambushing him all at once. They were so _loud_, until he couldn't hear himself breathe, couldn't even feel the ground when he crumpled to it.

The Master was clawing at his head, just to make it go away for a while. He couldn't hear even footfalls over the din, didn't even know he was shaking until there was an arm around his shoulder. He might have snarled at the Doctor, but he wasn't sure, not when he couldn't even think.

He felt the Doctor slump against the wall, dragging him along until his cheek was pressed against the Doctor's shirt. It wasn't that he didn't have the urge to bat the Doctor's hands away, to flee entirely. it was just that his head was more immediately distracting, throbbing, deafening, and no amount of scrabbling at his own head eased it.

Long, nimble fingers gently pushed his from his hair, and he scowled at the Doctor through the noise and the agony. The Doctor was grave and silent, eyes closed like he couldn't bear the sight, and _good_, the Master decided. If he was miserable, the Doctor damn well better be too. He had every intention of saying as much, but the cruel, disparaging words died in his throat as the Doctor's fingers moved.

It was such a small, insignificant thing, the pads of the Doctor's fingers rubbing circles along his scalp. There was a thumb against his temple, and the Master noticed in horror the way his body just sagged, relaxing against the Doctor, and he'd never _told_ it that was okay. He tensed, ready to pull away, to wreak havoc on the Doctor for reducing him to this, but... just often enough, some place the Doctor touched eased the drumming, just a little.

He hated the way his own body betrayed him. Even more, he iloathed/i the Doctor for his audacity, for the way he felt more than he actively participated in being urged to his feet, for the way the Doctor kept _touching_ him like he had remotely any right to. The Master's fingers curled so hard his nails dug into his palms, but the moment he jerked away, all the relief the Doctor offered was gone, the drumming and the agony rushing back in a wave that threatened to topple him. The side of his fist only thumped ineffectively against the Doctor's chest.

XXX

It was a sad world indeed, the one where the Doctor felt this much compunction to help the Master. Every time he fought, the Doctor considered letting go, leaving him the Master to his drumming and going to _sleep_. Only, invariably, the Master glared at him, all hate and fury and somewhere underneath it, an anguish the Doctor couldn't refuse. The Doctor only allowed himself a shake of his head as he shuffled the Master to the bed he belonged in this time of night.

He might have said something, tried to soothe as much with words as he did with his hands. There was nothing for it though, nothing he could offer that wasn't a lie, and there were only ashes in the Doctor's throat. The way the Master practically hissed when the Doctor gently shushed him, the way he fought even as he melted under the Doctor's fingers, there was probably nothing safe to say anyway.

The Doctor was reminded of a stray dog he'd see once on Earth. Injured and bleeding, it snapped viciously at the humans trying to valiantly to help it. He found himself idly wishing he'd stuck around long enough to find out what they'd done. The Master was still struggling, which at the moment mostly amounted to baring his teeth as the Doctor arranged them on the bed.

The Doctor pulled the covers up around them, less because it was cold, and more because it offered a warm, safe place to hide. Before the Master could squirm out of his arms, he brought his hands back up, thumbs smoothing along the Master's hairline. There was scowling and silence, and for all the Master offered him a multitude of angry, petulant expressions, he wasn't pulling away either.

The room was blessedly quiet for a little while, as the Doctor worked his way over the Master's scalp. He watched the Master's eyes go a little unfocused, not really relaxed, but a bit more lucid. A stuttered sigh bled from the Master's lips, followed by an irritated frown, like the Master just didn't have the energy to fight anymore about it. It would've been precious if the circumstances had only been different, and the Doctor found himself aching all over again, wondering how long it had been since existing hadn't hurt.

"Do you hear it?" It was the Master's voice that broke the quiet, tired and plaintive and scratchy, like his throat was raw. The Doctor's teeth scraped over his upper lip, mulling over a response. He worked his way down, rubbing circles at the base of the Master's skull and shaking his head.

"Just listen," The Master insisted, shifting closer like the Doctor would hear by sheer proximity. His eyes were wild again, his voice edging on manic as he insisted, "You have to _listen_."

XXX

It hurt, it _hurt_, like the drums were offering retribution for the way he sought refuge. The doctor had no right, and the Master intended to make that perfectly clear… later. In the moment, he was so desperate, so exhausted of his own chaos, he could only strain against the doctor's fingers, slightly relieving, but not _enough_.

Blunt nails scratched down the back of his neck, and for the space of one beat, the drums were edged out entirely by something else. It probably hadn't even been intentional, but the idea stuck, the slip hope of relief for just a little while. That the Doctor would _have_ to listen, would hear what he heard every second of every day was not lost on the Master.

Before the Doctor could figure him out, the Master grabbed at him, shimmying a bit until their eyes met. That the Doctor would do it if he only asked was something the Master meant to ignore. He didn't get a choice, so why should the Doctor?

The Master ignored the look of recognition on the Doctor's face as his hands curled around the back of the Doctor's head, dragging him closer. The Doctor flinched, almost imperceptibly, but did not pull away. The Master needed and hated that the Doctor didn't' fight, even as the Master butted their foreheads together.

One, two, three, four, and the Doctor heard it too. His pretty, mournful eyes went wide in something like horror, and the Master felt him jerk back. The Master could only cling, desperate for the Doctor to understand.

"Oh, oh you… oh." The Doctor was murmuring at him, arms around his back, lips to his hairline. He wanted to scream because he would be feared and respected and never _pitied_, but the Doctor's mouth was over his, a willing sacrifice as they fell together.

He tried to consume the Doctor, to make him hear it until there was nothing left of either of them. The Doctor would suffer with him, would surely fall to pieces under the weight of it. Maybe then he'd be sorry for the arrogance that led them to this.

He was brutal, mocking their intimacy with bruising lips and yanking fingers. The buttons of the Doctor's shirt popped, one of them rolling away, but the Master was less interested in that than he was in owning the Doctor, body and mind. It wasn't strictly necessary, but an overwhelming need all the same. His head still throbbed, and the Doctor _had_ to feel it too.

The Doctor spent so very much time running, in retrospect the Master couldn't be sure why he hadn't expected it in this too. Brave and stupid and compassionate, the Doctor reached right through the noise, coaxing him out and dragging him along. The Master didn't even know he'd lost control until they were fleeing together.

It wasn't alright, it wasn't _fair_, but the Doctor's hands were on him again, warm and sure and soothing, palms swiping along his spine. They moved together, physical contact no more than a byproduct of something deeper. He was frantic and angry and just about to force the situation when something gave entirely, and if he stopped to think, it was probably the Doctor himself.

The shift came in bits and pieces, and sometimes the drums began to fade. He hated and envied and _craved_ the Doctor for his silence, for the peace that came in the absence of drums. They were two, and the Doctor moved against him, whining as their hips met, pleasure bleeding beyond flesh and blood.

They were two, frantic hands and stuttered breath and minds striving to meet, but ever so slightly out of sync. They were two, tangled limbs and the Doctor all around him, coaxing the pain from his head, buffering him from the drums, and he was awed and thrilled by how much the Doctor must be suffering for his relief. They were two, just barely, tremors and warmth, everything reduced to hearts that beat in tandem.

Briefly, blissfully, beautifully, they were one, neither existing, except at the behest of the other. They came unraveled and spun together, nothing and the whole of the universe. They were hopelessly bound and the Master was only very dimly aware that he shook in the Doctor's arms. For just a little while the drums ceased entirely. There was nothing but the way they existed together in overwhelming, exquisite silence.

XXX

For all the Doctor had feared, it was so much worse than even he could have anticipated. Century after century of that, and it was no wonder the Master was quite mad. As the high of what they'd done wore off, even those brief moments, the ones where the Doctor had well and truly _heard_ left him shaken, smoothing his hands down the Master's back to hide his own trembling.

It had been so very long, so much more beautiful and terrible and overwhelming than he remembered. The Doctor's breath still came in uneven stutters, and his nerves sang with something just out of reach, like the wisps of a dream lingering just out of grasp. He licked his lips and braved a glance at the Master, stunned to find the fury finally receded. The Master wasn't looking at him even, half closed, bleary eyes focused on nothing at all.

He could not hate the Master, he decided, not after what he knew. He was awful and grasping and he _suffered_ so, in ways the Doctor still didn't know how to fix. He would try, he knew, and in the meantime… In the meantime the Master's eyes were closed and the Doctor couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him sleep.

The Doctor combed his fingers through the Master's hair, fighting off the drums that had probably already returned. In sleep, the Master pressed closer, and the Doctor ached for how far he'd fallen. It would not last, and at best, the Doctor expected a few hours before the Master was waking him, intent on sharing his misery. For now though, the quiet didn't mean The Master simply hurt too much to bang on the walls. Silence and peace finally coincided, and the Doctor wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, offering what comfort he could. Somewhere along the way, the Master's head was tucked beneath his chin warm in his arms as they slept.


	2. Chapter 2

"It doesn't change anything." The Master's voice was fretful and soft and a little bit angry, nudging the Doctor awake with its urgency. He was still wedged in the Doctor's arms, like the imperative to lash out hadn't quite caught up with him yet, and the Doctor was fairly certain he didn't even realize he was speaking aloud. That the drums had returned was a given, and the Doctor could only be sorry the fix he had offered was so fleeting.

The Master was already tensing a bit, awareness creeping in. He finally looked at the Doctor, brows knitted, the corners of his lips pulling down. For a moment, the Doctor expected him to turn vicious, to push him from the bed or worse, and the look on his face, the Master was probably considering it. Ultimately, it was the Master who fled, shoving himself from the Doctor's grip, rather like an angry cat.

"Don't think this makes anything better," The Master snarled, snatching up his shirt as he stalked from the room. The Doctor only silently watched him go.

XXX

It didn't _mean_ anything, of course. The Master stalked down the halls, and he wasn't fleeing, he _wasn't_. It was simply that the Doctor was inconsiderately still in his bed, and he wasn't remotely in the mood for company.

He paused only briefly in the console room, glaring at a door that could not budge for him. The Doctor had never said how he'd convinced the world that he was dead, and the Master hadn't bothered to ask. Whatever the method, the lie was a fragile one, risked the moment he so much as peeked outside. Even if he left the TARDIS, there was nowhere to go on this godforsaken planet, nowhere he would not be hunted, and no way to escape. Captivity with the Doctor was very slightly less distasteful than that at the hands of a world of degenerates.

The furthest reaches of the TARDIS weren't enough, not nearly. The Doctor would find him, and he couldn't have that. He could feel it building, the never ending drums, hammering away in the back of his mind. It ached, even as they marked his steps, footfalls and tiles and halls that never seemed to end.

The Master found his way to the finite edges of his prison, rooms so caked with dust that perhaps even the Doctor had forgotten them. The drums were insistent, pattering in painful retribution for the silence he'd so desperately accepted, sought after even. He would not do it again. What was relief at another's hand? The Master could see no point in freedom only to trade it for a different sort of captivity. No, he did not need the Doctor, and even the drums would bow to him if he could only make them _listen_.

He did not notice the way he swayed, dizzy and losing count, only that there was dust on his fingers, a handprint in the grime that covered an old table. The Master ignored his own unsteady steps. There had been other bodies, centuries of coping, and it had never hurt like this. Perhaps the cacophony of a race destroyed had drowned out its damage, but now they were two. Now they were two and the headaches brought him to his knees. It was a humiliation he intended to rectify.

Somewhere, the Doctor was calling out to him. Let him look. The Master retreated further until he was crouched in a dark corner, the closet door closed to drown out what he could. They were water and metal and he could feel himself rusting wherever the Doctor touched him. Jaw clenched tightly, the Master shut his eyes, trying to drown out the noise. It really was all such a disgrace.

XXX

He could not let the Master out of sight forever, and eventually the Doctor was forced to search for his rather unwilling companion. He moved cautiously, not entirely certain this wasn't the Master's newest game, or some sort of convoluted trap. It had been real though, the drums, the pain, all of it. Echoes of four still trembled along his nerves if he listened hard enough, and the Doctor hated to think what it might have done to him if they were real.

The Master was nowhere, nowhere the Doctor noticed on his first pass. That he hadn't left was a given… probably, and so he looked harder, searching the places no one went, listening for any signs of life beyond his own steps. It felt like ages before he found his way to an all but abandoned hallway, the Master's presence pulling at him in horrifying, enthralling ways.

Somewhere along the way, he'd learned it, the sound of the Master having a particularly difficult time. The drums did not quite reach the Doctor's ears, but the Master's breathing did, harsh and stuttered. Too distracted to mute his own pained sounds, the Doctor guessed the Master was already holding his head, wherever he was hidden.

Ultimately, the Master was not so difficult to find, huddled in a corner of a forgotten closet. The Doctor eased the door open, wishing he hadn't been right after all, but the Master was there, curled in on himself, fingers curled roughly around the back of his head. He didn't even seem to notice he'd been discovered until the Doctor stepped into the dusty, forgotten closet, wedging himself into the corner beside the Master though there was hardly room.

He'd heard the god awful noise, been shaken by it, but there was so little he could do to fix it in the moment. His hands reached out, almost of their own volition, because the Master only seemed to be getting worse and he wasn't entirely certain what to _do_. The Master jerked away, but there was nowhere to go without fleeing entirely, and even the way he shifted did not put him out of the Doctor's reach entirely.

"I don't _need_ you," the Master hissed, but he didn't duck out from under the Doctor's hands on his head, carding through his hair.

"Course not," the Doctor replied softly, wishing it didn't have to be like this every time. The Master always put up a fight, and the Doctor wasn't certain whether it was the humiliation of having to flee the closet entirely to get away, or if he was only looking for an excuse to allow himself this that stilled the Master. Either way, he sulked, eyes closed against the way his head had to be throbbing, like if he didn't watch the Doctor press closer, fingers easing some of the tension away, it simply hadn't happened.

XXX

He hated them both just then. The Doctor really never could just let things be, all warm hands and soft words like there should be anything good about being held against his will. When the tables had been turned, he'd at least had the consideration not to offer hope where there was none. This… some moments it was all too much.

"We can fix this, you know." The Doctor's voice was soft, lips brushing the Master's temple, and for all he told himself he _wanted_ to get away, he couldn't bring himself to move. The Doctor's fingers worked their way down to the base of his skull, and self preservation kept him still, leaning in even if it made him ill, because it felt so much _better_. The drums weren't gone, but their viciousness was tempered their full force warded by the very contact he was trying to hard not to give in to.

"You think you can fix everything," the Master muttered, glowering at the Doctor. He thought he was glowering anyway, though judging from the Doctor's expression, it wasn't very effective. The faint, sad smile that flirted with the Doctor's lips might also have been from the realization that they were sitting in a closet, he supposed.

"I have a pretty good track record," the Doctor insisted, all but ignoring the flat look the Master gave him. He grinned and it would've been heartbreaking in another life, the way that, for all his levity, it didn't quite reach his eyes. He shrugged a bit, as best he could without letting go as he amended, "Well, after a fashion."

In a dusty, forgotten closet, the two of them huddled, and it was nearly nice despite how very undignified it was. The pads of the Doctor's fingers smoothed along his scalp, easing the awful throbbing in his head. He felt himself unwind despite his best efforts to the contrary, only aware of the way his head had found the Doctor's chest when heartbeats began to drown out the drums, just the tiniest bit. It wasn't the overwhelming sort of relief the Doctor had offered the night before, but it was something and the Master despised it and clung to it. "Can you really stop them?"

"I…" The Doctor paused, fingers stilling where they were buried in the Master's hair. "Well, we'll figure something out."

It wasn't the right answer. It was the placating tone the Doctor knew when he fully intended to bullshit his way to a solution, when he hadn't the faintest idea what he was doing. Centuries of history and that never changed, and maybe it worked on the dimwitted humans the Doctor was so fond of, but he would not be fooled. To be treated like one of the Doctor's pets, no worse than that because he didn't even get a _choice_, it was more than he could take.

He might have strangled the Doctor, let him choke on his pretty promises if only there hadn't been an insurmountable pull between them. Centuries he'd chased after the Doctor and they could've been marvelous. Only the Doctor left, the Doctor _always_ left, and how dare he pretend that either of them wanted it like this?

"Not. Good. Enough," The Master snapped, expression shuttering because the Doctor didn't deserve to see the parts that mattered. He shoved the Doctor away, headache be damned, and the closet was suddenly far too small. The Doctor didn't even do him the courtesy of looking upset, or even surprised when the Master pulled himself to his feet, angry and wobbling and desperate to get away.


	3. Chapter 3

The Master was banging on the walls again, a raucous pattern that echoed through the TARDIS,

impossible to miss. The Doctor had hoped that the solitude would help, but the Master only seemed

worse here, less lucid, as if the stress of being captive was simply deafening. In another regeneration, he

might've ignored it, kept his worries to himself, but they were the only two left. Despite what the Master

had done, the Doctor could not watch him suffer.

Timelords had been brutal despite all their dignity, and it was no wonder the Master hid his

damage, even from the Doctor in better times, rather than seek out help he would not receive. Even

before searching the TARDIS' knowledge banks, the Doctor knew he'd find no aid for this. Timelords did

not provide for such things, preferring to shed their deficiencies like so much damaged goods.

It was somewhat of what the doctor had come to love in humans. In that, there was perhaps

some hope after all. Humans also lost their minds from time to dime, didn't they? Often enough to be

worth medicating, it seemed. Often enough, the Doctor found himself researching how they went about

it, if it might perhaps be adaptable to the Doctor's purposes. The banging had long since stopped when

the Doctor's efforts produced an approximation of some human antipsychotic. It was questionable at

best, but at least worth a try.

Pills in hand, the Doctor went in search of his captive, unsettled by the lack of sound to guide his

way. The Master was usually so very obnoxious about his presence, and relative peace was more often

trouble than respite. Wondering what, precisely, he'd gotten himself into, the Doctor walked the TARDIS

halls.

The door to the Master's room was conspicuously closed, not that that was terrible surprising.

He'd run off like a petulant teenager, and the Doctor didn't really know what to do with that beyond

briefly missing past regenerations, who had at least pretended at being too sophisticated for such

nonsense. With a soft sigh, the Doctor put his hand to the door, bracing himself for whatever he might

find as he pushed it open.

The Master was… not causing trouble, nor was he holding his head at the moment. He sat,

sulking, in the middle of the bed among sheets still tangled from them. When the Doctor finally stepped

inside, the Master did not even look up, as if the Doctor might cease to be if he just didn't acknowledge

him.

"I brought you something," the Doctor murmured, edging closer to the bed. He half expected the

Master to lash out at him, he _always_ somewhat expected that. The Master only watched him

suspiciously, eyes flicking over the Doctor from head to toe.

"It's worth a shot. They're modified off what humans use for this sort of thing," The Doctor

offered when the Master said nothing. There he'd done it though, saying the wrong thing again. The

Master's expression darkened, and he'd only just barely reached out to offer up the pills when they were

being violently swatted away.

"I'm not crazy. You _heard_ it," The Master hissed, something heartbreaking in the way he

glared up from the bed sheets.

One. Two. Three. Four. The beats were still haunting when the Doctor stopped to think, but it

didn't _mean_ much. It didn't mean the sound was anything beyond the product of a battered,

troubled mind. There was no keeping the regret from his voice as he replied, "I don't know what I heard,

but I _am_ trying to help you. "

"Help me? That's a laugh," The Master muttered scathingly. The worst part was how resigned he

sounded, too weary even to properly glare at the Doctor. "The only thing you're out to save is your own

guilty conscience."

"I…" The Doctor meant to refute that. It wasn't true. It _wasn't_ Only… he shook his head,

denying the accusation. "I'm trying to fix this."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night." The Master wasn't looking at him anymore, hunching his

shoulders and turning away like an angry cat. Whatever ground they'd gained the night before was

clearly lost, and for all the space between them, the Doctor's failure was stifling. Unable to stomach

anymore of it, he stooped to pick the pills up off the floor, sparing just enough time to deposit them on

the nightstand. Giving up on making any progress for the moment, he saw himself out, not nearly quickly

enough for his own tastes. He always had been rather good at running, after all.

XXX

The way the Doctor had looked at him stuck with the Master, left him raw and furious and

desperate. They'd been something better once, hadn't they? So much potential, regrettably wasted

when the Doctor left and now… now the Doctor had the audacity to look at him like so many broken

bits, like something less than equal. He was _brilliant_ but the Doctor looked at him like he needed

anyone's pity.

Perhaps his hands would find their way to the Doctor's throat. Perhaps he'd choke the rest of his

regenerations away until there was no one left to pity him. Only the Doctor didn't even have the

decency to be angry at him any longer, would probably just forgive him as if forgiveness was at all his to

give.

The fury didn't last, it couldn't when, for all his sanctimony, the Doctor had silenced the drums

for a little while. For all the Master loathed him, he craved and loved the Doctor too, and in this place

there was no escape from the shock of it. Furniture and walls and air, the whole TARDIS smelled of the

Doctor, this bed most of all. The sheets were honey and warm fingers, soft lips still echoing across his

skin, and the Master melted into the ghost of it despite his best efforts to the contrary.

There had been such marvelous silence in the way they wound together, relief and hope in the

Doctor's hands on him, cradling him like something loved. He'd outgrown wanting that, hadn't he? He

didn't _need_ that, but his fingers clenched in sheets still thick with the scent of the two of them

unraveling together, and he breathed out a shudder.

The Master glared at the pills, innocently lying on the night stand. He clung to what fury he

could muster. Leave it to the Doctor to find some excuse to fool around with human toys, like they were

anything special. The _Doctor_ didn't even know how to help, not in any useful way, and the

Master would begrudgingly admit he was clever. How _dare_ he trust in the inventions of some

lower life form for something so important?

They wouldn't work, of course. The Master was positive of that much. Still, the Doctor would

whine about it, and being stuck with him was insufferable enough anyway. If he took them, he'd get the

pleasure of the Doctor's face as he was proven wrong at least, some very small victory. The Master

picked the pills up, swallowing them before he could change his mind.

They might be poison, he recognized. The Doctor wasn't malicious, not in that sort of way, but

he could well be momentarily stupid. The Master had dealt with worse; he could ride it out if he really

had to. More likely, nothing at all would happen.

The seconds ticked by, stretched out, the silence of the room consumed by drumming. They

didn't disappear, didn't so much as fade. The Master couldn't sort out exactly, if he was disappointed or

pleased to know he was right. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and the Master didn't know how long it

was supposed to take, but he would take sad little victories where he could. He dragged himself from the

bed, determined to prove to the Doctor how futile the attempt had been.

The Doctor was not in the console room, which was a shame really. The Master had stalked

indignantly the entire way, and it was such a waste to storm in on an empty room. Twenty minutes had

passed by then, and he wasn't sure where else the Doctor might've gone.

The Doctor could at least have the decency to be accessible, because what good was it to know

he was right and not be able to show that off? The Doctor had the audacity to keep him like some sort of

ill tempered _pet_, and well fine. Fine, he would stay for a while, but it hardly seemed fair of him to

run off when the Master had something to say to him.

The Master padded down the halls, lost his way, _hated_ being stuck in a TARDIS who

loathed him so much because he couldn't have gotten turned around on his own. The lab was empty

too, all three times he wandered past it. Nearly half an hour had passed, and it was just getting to be

stupid. He tripped over nothing, as if his feet had missed some nonexistent stair, and he scowled at that,

that even his own body couldn't be bothered to obey.

The room the Doctor slept in was unsecure, the door wide open, his body a conspicuous lump

beneath the blankets. It was foolish pride to think himself so safe, or perhaps the insulting pity that kept

him running back to the Master's side. The Master snarled at the idea that the Doctor _kept_ him

here, and thought himself so untouchable. The thought caught and stuck and his head was fuzzy with it

for a moment. Maybe it had just been exhaustion that he'd forgotten to shut the door, and the Master

envied that, just a bit, that the only relief he'd found from the drums long enough to get any proper rest,

had been at the Doctor's own hand.

Well, if he couldn't sleep, the Doctor wouldn't either. The Master balled his fist up, swinging it at

the open door to smack it against the wall… and missed. The Master shook his still foggy head, shouting

at the Doctor. He thought he shouted, anyway. The Doctor hadn't so much as stirred, so it was

impossible to say.

Wobbliness crept up on him, and the Master was only aware he'd grabbed the door handle

when it was the only thing keeping him from crashing to the floor. He slumped against the door, and in

some sort of cruel joke, it gave against his weight, thumping against the wall. The Doctor might've woken

then, but the Master was too busy cursing his fatigue, affronted by his inability to keep his eyes open by

willpower alone. The world went away for a while, and the Master slept, propped against the Doctor's

bedroom door.

XXX

There was a loud bang, not the infernal beat of four the Doctor was getting so used to hearing,

just a singular clang of metal on metal. It jarred him from sleep and he sat up, startled into awareness. A

cursory glance around settled his most persistent worry. After all, the Master was sleeping in the

doorway of his room. Shaking his head, the Doctor rolled over, trying to go back to sleep.

The Master was sleeping against his bedroom door… and the Doctor couldn't think of any

reason why that should be. He _had_ a room of his own and a multitude of others he could haunt if

he wanted a change of scenery. Lying in the doorway wasn't particularly vicious unless his new game was

to try to trip the Doctor wherever he went. It left that the Master had come to him for help as the only

reasonable explanation. Sometimes, the Doctor still forgot that the Master was rarely reasonable.

Perhaps he'd taken the pills though, and just suppose they'd had some side effect the Doctor

hadn't thought of. He'd barely considered the idea that the Master might be poisoned or suffering

somehow, but he was out of bed and across the room, kneeling beside his rather unwilling companion.

The Master seemed well enough, breathing even and untroubled, and perhaps the medication had just

put him to sleep. That was good too, the Doctor supposed, and heaven knew he _needed_ to rest,

but it didn't explain why the Doctor's doorway was the best place to do it.

The Doctor prodded a bit at the Master, allaying any residual worry that something deeper was

wrong. The Master was out like a light, only twitching a bit beneath the Doctor's fingertips. Intending to

drag the Master back to his room, the Doctor pulled him from the doorway, sighing a bit at the dead

weight in his arms.

Obnoxiously, the Master had retreated to the furthest, most inconvenient room when given a

choice, like putting as much distance between them as he could would keep the Doctor from bothering

him. It hadn't worked, but just now, the Doctor was shaking his head, not particularly thrilled at the idea

of dragging the Master all the way there. His own bed was not nearly so much effort to get to, and he

dumped the Master a bit unceremoniously on it instead, marveling at the way the Master did not so

much as crack an eye open at him.

He settled almost immediately, in fact, sprawled out across the bed like a starfish or a cat. Even asleep it

was as if he had some sort of imperative to annoy the Doctor in any way that he could, but the Doctor

couldn't quite find it in him to be irritated this time. There were still such dark smudges beneath his

eyes, and whether or not the pills quieted the drums, they seemed to let him relax… even if his choice of

location left a bit to be desired.

The Doctor frowned a bit when he found himself tugging the blankets up around the Master's shoulders.

It was alright though, he had plenty of other things to do. Satisfied the Master couldn't get up to too

much trouble in his current state, the Doctor padded out of the room, leaving him to sleep.

XXX

It was honey and soft skin, a sort of peace he sought after desperately and never quite grasped.

There was familiarity and warmth, the world fuzzy around him still. Only the drums marred his

momentary content, their insistent thudding interrupting the calm.

He couldn't hold onto it, _never_ managed to. No matter how real or enticing it felt, the

pounding in his head would not be silenced, shoving him frustrated and ill tempered from slumber. The

Master shoved his face into the pillows, latching onto what comfort he could, and not quite recognizing

the meaning.

Consciousness returned in bits and pieces, whether he particularly wanted it to or not. Hiding in

the sheets offered little buffer, even less when it occurred to him exactly what was so familiar about said

sheets. The evening before came back in bits and pieces, and he remembered dizzy and stumbling and

the Doctor hadn't even had the courtesy to acknowledge he was there. That he had been sleeping was

beside the point.

The Master sat up, throwing the sheets aside in an attempt to shrug off the way the Doctor was

overwhelmingly around him. He managed to suffocate without even deigning to stay in the bed he'd

somehow decided he had the right to dump the Master in. The Master loathed them both just then, for

the way his body strained to be nearer, even if he'd outgrown wanting, _needing_ the Doctor long

ago.

Fuming at the way even his own body betrayed him, the Master got up, trying to shake off the

way his head pounded. He scowled and snarled until the TARDIS finally let him into the console room

where the Doctor was, leaning over some infernal gadget. The Doctor didn't even bother to

acknowledge him, and the Master felt very much like throwing something at his stupid, pretty head.

"What gives you the right…"

"There's tea, over there, if you want some." The Doctor very mildly cut him off, waving vaguely

off to the side. He could've been talking to anyone with a tone like that, and the Master wouldn't have

it, would _not_ be ignored or dismissed or… but the Doctor hadn't abandoned him at all, had he?

The Master shrugged off the thought, the implications, closing the distance between them.

"I'm not some pet for you to just… just _keep_," The Master snapped again, yanking on the

Doctor's chair until it swiveled and the Doctor had no choice but to finally look at him.

"What exactly are you so upset about? You're the one who was sleeping against my door. Would

you rather I'd just left you there?" The Doctor asked, looking the Master in the eye. His expression was so

patient, sympathetic even, that it made the Master a bit ill. Sympathy he did not _need_. Sympathy

had gotten him warm lips and a body that moved with him, drawing the drums away only to flee like the

Doctor always, always did.

"You could've just woken me up," the Master snarled, ignoring the fact that he'd have likely

been irritated about that too. Waking up though, alone in sheets that smelled overwhelmingly of the

Doctor, it left him feeling and starved in ways he didn't like to think about.

The Doctor shook his head, fingers settling on the Master's arm like they had any right to be

there. "That's only the second time I've seen you properly sleeping since you got here. If you didn't wake

up at being moved, you obviously _needed_ it."

"Needed it? Who do you think you are to tell me what I need?" The Master jerked his arm away,

out of the Doctor's grip.

"I'm trying to help you." If the words had just been something different, the Doctor's pleading

tone would've been delicious. It only left a bitter taste in the Master's mouth.

"Help me? Is that what you've decided this is? You just took me prisoner for _my_ benefit of

course." The Master laughed, a mirthless, manic sound, near enough the Doctor's face to take in the

barest change in his expression.

The Doctor sighed, eyes full of shadows. "You didn't leave me any choice."

"Liar. You go on all the time about how bloody brilliant you are, insufferable git. How you beat

the odds all the time, and don't you _dare_ pretend this is because you couldn't come up with

another way. You don't get to play at being the good one, here." The Doctor looked away, and

_good_. If the Master had to stay, the Doctor would be every bit as miserable as he was.

For just the briefest moment, the Doctor flinched as if he'd been struck. It was the closest thing the

Master had felt to winning since he'd gotten there. The victory was short lived, and the Doctor collected

himself, voice steady for all his sorrow. "Fine."

"Fine? Fine, what?" The Master asked, cursing his own curiosity. The Doctor didn't answer, but

his hands curled abruptly around the Master's hips, steering him to the side Before the Master could

protest, the Doctor had released him, practically bolting out of the chair to flip switches and levers on

the TARDIS console.

"What are you doing?" The Master demanded, trying to get a good look at the coordinates.

The Doctor was rather obstinately in the way, silent and focused and offering nothing of his intentions.

It wasn't until the TARDIS had lurched uncoordinately into motion that he finally replied,

"Coming up with another way."

They'd no sooner landed with a heavy, tell tale thud, and the Doctor was bounding to the

doors, flinging them wide open. The Master fought the urge to run, narrowing his eyes at the Doctor, but

all he got for his efforts was a vague gesture towards the world beyond, and a tired dismissal, "Well get

out then."

"What is this?" the Master demanded, waiting for the inevitable trick of. The Doctor looked

overwhelmingly unhappy, but his mind gave away nothing of his intentions. A skeptical look out the

doors only revealed luch grass and grees, mountains far off in the distance. Two suns sat high in the sky,

the planet awash in light, and the Doctor simply held the door open to him.

The Master was already edging towards the exit, subtly as possible, when the Doctor finally

deigned to reply, "It's Xerxes Four eventually. Perfectly habitable, all clean air and green grass..."

Whatever else the Doctor was saying about the planet drifted to background noise, muffled by

the TARDIS wall once the Master stepped across the threshold. The air was balmy against his face, and

for the moment he closed his eyes and forgot his life had gone to hell. There was something peaceful

about it, and if he didn't count the drums, the quiet was terribly enticing, even as it gnawed at him.

"Weather's like this all the time, and there's a waterfall down that way. It's a perfect place for a

picnic. The Doctor was still babbling, like if he talked long enough, the Master would come to his senses

and return to the TARDIS. Fat chance of that now that he had his freedom. The Master had no intention

of revoking it again. He was giddy with it, almost missing the last of what the Doctor said. "I'm a bit

shocked it's another thousand years before anyone notices it."

That got the Master's attention. That... that wouldn't do at all. For all its beauty and space and

freedom, it only amounted to a shiny, empty rock. He shook his head, and as if the Master didn't already

know, he carefully bit out, "There is no one _here_."

"Course not. I can't very well trust you with a planet full of people. It'd be Earth all over again,

or worse." And there it was then, the cruel trick to what the Doctor offered him. He forgot sometimes,

the bitter edge to all the Doctor's compassion, until it was staring him down, _abandoning_ him to a

pretty, empty cage.

"You can't just..." he began, but the Doctor cut him off.

"You've made it very clear you don't want to stay and you don't want my help." There was

something grieving in the Doctor's expression, but the Master was too angry to give it much thought.

"This isn't freedom. There is no one _here_," he snarled, starlking back towards the

TARDIS.

The Doctor's throat worked, and there was the slightest catch to his voice. "No. Just you and

the drums. Goodbye Master."

"You can't just _leave_ me here, you idiot," The Master shouted, but the TARDIS door had

already slammed shut. He lunged for the doors, banging against them, but there was no answer, and his

screams were already drowned out in the hum of the TARDIS fading against his fists.

With nothing left to yell at, the Master slumped to the ground, pillowed against the

untouched grass. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. Already the drums crept in, and he

squeezed his eyes shut, jaw set against the urge to sob out his frustration.

One. Two. Three. Four. The Master was hunched in on himself, knees drawn up, scrubbing at

his face with his hands. The quiet did nothing to drown out the drums, and the Doctor had just

_left_ him, like he was less even than the annoying humans always hanging about. The Master

crumpled in the grass, uselessly holding his throbbing head.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there. The hammering in his head was deafening,

overwhelming all sense of time and place. The Doctor would come back, pushover that he was. He

_would_, and the Master kept looking when there was silence enough to manage it. Only

wilderness met him, a brilliant sunset and the creeping terror that he was well and truly alone.

Well, that was alright. He would manage like he always did. Swallowing against the way his

head still ached, the Master climbed to his feet. If he was to be trapped here, he might as well make the

best of it.

It wasn't the sort of planet he frequented, for obvious reasons. Earth had been so easy despite

his limited resources, little pushes in all the right places and they ate right out of his hand. An entire

population had been largely at his beck and call, catering to his needs, his desires, his slightest whims.

There was no one to listen to him here, not even the drums bothered to obey him, but he would

manage. He would do... something.

The Master picked his way towards the treeline. He wasn't hungry, but he would be eventually,

and best to know his options. His sights were always set so much bigger, tending to basic necessities felt

like a terrible inconvenience. In the failing light, none of the trees or bushes looked like anything he

recognized, so the Master pressed on, looking for something theoretically edible.

The drums picked up with the darkness, the trees overhead blotting out the gray of twilight.

The Master wasn't sure where he was anymore, not that he'd ever known. The air was uncomfortable

cool though, hissing through the trees, and he was dimly aware he ought to find some sort of shelter.

Pulling his suit jacket closed, the Master padded through the woods, only succeeding in losing

himself further. He hadn't the faintest idea where the trees ended anymore, and the cold seeped

through his clothes until he shivered. Frustration brought the drums with it, and they'd only gotten so

much _worse_ since the paradox had been broken, unraveling everything he'd done. He couldn't

think sometimes, but he managed of course, hardly even noticing the way his balance was lost until his

knees hit the ground.

The Master cursed, scrubbing a hand over his face. The Doctor still hadn't come back for him,

and there was no light left to see by, save for the faint pinpricks of stars poking through the leaves. The

trees never quite seemed to end, crowding together into the shadows, and the Doctor hadn't even

bothered to leave him tools, a weapon, anything.

The drums cared nothing for his discomfort, thumping away in his head until his stomach

turned. He meant to get back up, but they _hurt_, and he managed only to press against the base of

a tree, cradling his skull. Distantly, he recalled the way the Doctor's hands had moved over his scalp,

hidden away in a closet, but his own efforts to recreate the feeling did nothing to leech away the agony.

If he could just sleep, perhaps he'd feel better. For all he hated the pills the Doctor had given

him, he'd slept and woken just a bit less shattered. There was little hope of finding shelter in the

dark, and no one to see him stoop so low, so the Master curled up where he was, willing the drums to

just shut up for a while.

They did no such thing. They cared nothing for his orders, only redoubling there efforts when

he tried to listen to something else. There was nothing _here_, not the comfort of bed sheets and

the press of warm hands, not the blissful silence of the Doctor wrapped around him, and no matter how

much he loathed it all, for those precious few moments he'd almost felt alright.

He lay shivering in the dark, but sleep never came. His fingers tapped against dead leaves and

dirt, but nothing _helped_, and bit by bit he was coming apart again. He was so much _better_

than that, wasn't he? Only the drums raced through him surely as his own heartsbeat, and nothing at all

felt right.

The hours passed, hopeless eons before the sun began to rise, herald to his failed attempts at

slumber. Everything ached, and he was no nearer to finding food or shelter or cobbling together

anything like an existence. Snarling at his own failure, the Master grasped at the tree, hauling himself to

his feet.

Daylight was no less bleak, and for all the sunlight warming the world around him, the Master

was still miserable, miserable and all on his own. He wandered aimlessly, succeeding in turning himself

around a few times, loathing that his greatest success was finding a trickle of a stream cutting throught

he woods. It was something to follow at least, taking him further, he guessed, from where the Doctor had

left him, but that hardly mattered since the Doctor didn't seem to be coming back.

One. Two. Three. Four. In time with his every breath. They were definitely worse without the

Doctor's constant hovering, and his thoughts kept coming back to the way the Doctor had touched him,

ashamed at how badly he craved it. It wasn't the Doctor he cared about, but he'd felt _good_ for a

little while, and he was desperate to have it back.

He would survive, of course. Cautiously, the Master plucked at berries on a bush, eyeing them

like appearance alone might tell him if they were safe. Cursing his lack of anything useful to sort his

surroundings out with, he popped one in his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste of it. His next few

attempts were no better, and eventually he gave up for the moment, scooping water from the stream

into his hands to try and wash the taste away.

The drums hovered insistently, clouding his thoughts of things he actually needed. They drove

him to such great heights, the plans of the Valiant etched at the back of his mind, machines and

meddling and he was meant for so much _more_ than this. He couldn't seem to properly feed

himself though, and all his brilliance meant nothing when he had nowhere even safe to hide.

It was afternoon, probably, by the time he found his way out of the woods again. Another

meadow, more silence, and he summarily hated the planet for being so cursedly difficult. His head ached

in waves, bringing him to his knees now and again, now that he was terribly alone, now that nothing

distracted or staved off the pain.

And that was what his life amounted to. Throbbing headaches and a pretty, useless world, and

the night cold around him. He'd have given anything just then, to make it stop, but the drums kept right on

battering at him until he lost what little was left in his stomach. He crawled through the grass, swaying on his

hands and knees until even that was too much and they gave under him. Tendrils of green tickled his face,

but he could only moan and try to hide away behind his hands.

Something finally poked through the hammering in his head. A familiar whooshing, and he

peeked through the gaps in his fingers, hardly daring to hope. He _hurt_, but he knew that sound,

and for just a moment it was the most beautiful thing in the universe. Brought too low for much else, the

Master struggled, shaking, to his feet, barely managing to swipe at his mouth.

The whirring of the TARDIS was eventually accompanied by a familiar police box, not so far from

where he wobbled, sick and miserable. The door popped open, and there was no greeting, but the Doctor

stood in the doorway again, quietly watching him.

"Coward. I knew you didn't have the guts to just leave," the Master accused weakly, lying

through his teeth. His voice was hollow and raw, and he couldn't even pretend something in him wasn't

still rattled and afraid.

"Except maybe I really did. I could've been gone weeks and you wouldn't know the

difference," The Doctor murmured, leaning against the door frame.

"Oh come off it. You probably felt like such a heel when you left, you came right back," The

Master grumbled, but he was already stumbling back towards the TARDIS, bleeding relief more than he

knew how to hide.

The Doctor's fingers curled around the door frame like it was a concerted effort not to reach

out and help. "I take it freedom wasn't to your liking then?"

The Master's lips turned down and he glared at the Doctor. "Don't act like that means I like it

with you any better, or that I'm staying. You can't keep an eye on me all the time. "

The Doctor froze, and for one fleeting, terrifying second, the Master was certain he was going

to shut the door and leave again. He didn't leave, but his voice was edging on harsh as he spoke. "No.

You see, you get one shot at this. You can stay. I _will_ help you, but you have to stay."

"You..." The Master wasn't sure what he meant to say. His jaw worked and every solution he

came up with only seemed worse, and he felt _terrible_ just them. He didn't even realize he'd

reached out, but the Doctor's hand was on his arm, supporting him with a soft sigh. Leaning heavily

against the Doctor's shoulder, he allowed himself to be led inside. "Fine."


End file.
